Sunday: How I Came to Write This Story: Gary Clifton

Genesis of the Last Ambassador to Pushmataha:  Like much of what I write, forty years with a badge provides for a deep bucket of wild yarns.  The villain, who claimed to be a hunted, wrongly deposed Middle Eastern royal family member was in reality an illegal-alien dime bag dope dealer from Mexico.  He managed to ignite a black powder bomb beneath the men's urinal while the joint was full of drunks. The blast caught an unemployed window washer from Wisconsin in the ready position, blowing his right hand out through the roof with his pride and joy firmly in its grasp. The dancer/girlfriend was a skinny blond topless dancer whose brain had been consumed by substance ingestion, i.e. probably acid.

 

We did in fact allow the toad to get away from us once, but he was too dumb to quit while clear.  He returned to the club with another black powder pipe bomb (see exploded pirate ships, other nasty accidents, etal throughout the history of black powder), managed to have a slight timing accident and lost both arms just above the elbow, prompting yours truly to make the observation at Parkland he was doomed to the Texas Department of Corrections with no way to jerk off.  I heard he was murdered - shanked - in the shower the next year.  Another case of an unjust society dooming an unarmed man to prison - pun is intended.  It's all so damned unfair.

 

And the chick may or may not have run away with the spoon.

 

Note, the written yarn deviates somewhat from the true hard facts.

 

Gary Clifton